


Never Pet a Burning Space Dog

by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: AU, Garza and Nate don't say much, Gen, Space Marines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:06:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2774102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few thousand years in the future, some things don't change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Pet a Burning Space Dog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waketosleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waketosleep/gifts).



“MOPP suits?” Brad asks when he pulls the bright red suit from its envelope. “Sir, does command realize we’re supposed to be landing on Jupiter, not Mars?”

“It’s a mistake, yes,” Nate replies. “But you know as well as I do every MOPP suit can be calibrated to JOPP requirements.”

“Yes, sir,” Brad mutters, and he shares an exasperated look with Ray.

“Suit up and get loaded,” Nate orders the men. “We launch ASAP.”

“Yes, Sir,” the men chorus, but not in perfect unison. 

“How the fuck do you rig a MOPP suit to JOPP standards?” Poke asks, looking at his suit with disgust.

“Give it to Ray,” Brad replies as he tosses his into Ray’s arms. “He can do it.”

“I am not the company bitch, Brad. You know damn well how to recal the fucker yourself.”

“Here,” Doc Bryan says, coming over and taking Poke’s suit from him. “I got this one.”

“All right!” Ray yells, “everybody find a recal buddy, and I’ll walk you through it. Make sure you don’t fuck with your temp sensor, or you’ll die of exposure.”

“And double check your grav recal,” Doc adds. “You get that off, you’ll shatter your skull from the pressure adjustment.”

A few of the men look terrified, but they do as they’re told. Once everyone’s suit is the appropriate hazy yellow and brown, Brad leads the way to the shuttle.

Lieutenant Fick is there, standing next to a man in an actual JOPP suit. “This is a reporter with Rotating Moon,” he says. “He’s coming along to observe.”

“Great,” Brad says. “Doc, unfuck his suit so his skull doesn’t cave in, all right?”

“Copy that,” Doc says. The reporter looks even more terrified than some of the men had. No one provides him with any reassurance.

It’s five men to a shuttle, four inside and one up top on the laser cannon. Reporter gets pushed into Brad’s shuttle and strapped in by Fick, who looks less than pleased to have the assignment. 

“So, why are we landing on Jupiter?” Reporter asks as the shuttle roars to life and they take off. 

“Alien pussy,” Ray says. “There’s bitches on Jupiter with four mouths, nine tits, and triple pussies. They fuck you for ten minutes, and it’s like getting fucked for a week.”

“Shut up, Ray,” Brad replies. He’s too strapped in to turn in his seat, so he brings up the heads up display so he and reporter can see each other. “It’s a fact-finding mission,” Brad says. “Don’t you follow the news?”

“Sure,” Reporter replies. “But no one actually thinks this is a fact-finding mission. Why send Recon Marines? Why isn’t this a diplomatic mission?”

“Because our higher ups occasionally forget what those words mean,” Brad says.

“Sergeant,” Trombley says, nose nearly touching the window glass. “I can’t see any stars.”

“We’re between them, Trombley. Give it time.”

“I want to shoot a star,” Trombley says. “I hear they look fucking awesome when they go up.”

“We are not shooting stars,” Brad tells him. “No one in this vehicle is going to shoot stars.”

“Jesus,” Ray scoffs. “Going to Jupiter in the wrong fucking suits, and he’s worried about popping his star cherry.”

“Ray,” Brad says.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up,” Ray replies. He blinks twice to click on his own heads up. “Garza,” he says, and Garza’s face pops up on the HUD after a second. “Asteroid, 200 light years, think you can blast it to bits?”

“On it,” Garza says. 

The shuttle jerks as the laser cannon fires, and Reporter grips tight on his chest straps.

“Easy,” Brad says. “The recoil on that thing has to go somewhere. There’s shocks built into the shuttle to take the hit.”

“Only because we refit the fucking things,” Ray replies, bringing up Reporter on his heads-up. “This piece of shit didn’t even have full hull plating when we got it. Brad and I sunk 1500 of our own units into this thing so it’d actually make it through the fucking asteroid belt.”

“Well, it hasn’t made it yet,” Brad says. He twitches his left eye three times to bring up his scope and glasses a formation in the distance. “Shit.”

“What?” Ray asks, comms flashing on his heads-up.

“Bandits, I think.” Brad brings up Garza, then Poke. “Hitman Shuttle-2 to Hitman Gunner-2 and Hitman Shuttle-3. Scoped asteroid at my two o’clock. Confirm or deny bandits.”

“Confirmed,” Garza sends back almost immediately.

“Lilley confirms,” Poke replies after another second. “Light ‘em up?”

“Hold,” Brad says. He brings up Nate on the heads-up. “Hitman Shuttle-2 to Hitman Shuttle-Actual. We’ve got confirmed bandits at asteroid—”

“One-four-seven-point-nine-two,” Ray fills in for him.

“Request permission to engage.”

Nate looks thoughtful for a moment. “Negative, Hitman Shuttle-2,” he replies. “They may let us pass peacefully. If they fire on us, then you can light them up, but not until. How copy?”

“Solid copy,” Brad replies.

“Sorry, Trombley,” Ray says. “You won’t get to have a good excuse to shoot a star just yet.”

“Up yours, Corporal,” Trombley replies. 

The bandits let them pass, and Brad glasses them again. “Hitman Shuttle-2 to Hitman Shuttle-Actual, bandits have red diamonds on the side of their shuttle. Think they’re Martian separatists. Confirm non-engage.”

“No engagement, Brad,” Nate replies, dropping protocol and giving Brad a long-suffering look. “ROE has us on a fact-finding mission, not a pre-emptive strike.”

“Sir, Martian separatists took credit for blowing that shuttle of Rangers to hell and back.”

“I’m aware, but the answer is still no.”

“Fuck,” Ray says when Nate signs off. “If I’d known command was actually gonna pretend like we’re not going to Jupiter to fuck shit up, I’d never have showed up.”

“Right,” Brad says, sarcasm heavy. 

“Wait, so is it a fact-finding mission, or is it something else?” Reporter asks. 

“It’s a fact-finding mission,” Brad replies. “That we’re hoping leads to getting to fuck shit up.”

“So, I might still get to shoot a star?” Trombley asks.

Ray laughs. “Jesus.”

“If you’re good, Trombley,” Brad says. “If you’re good, I’ll let you shoot one star.”

“Cool,” Trombley says.

“I’m very confused,” Reporter says.

“Welcome to the Interplanetary Marine Corps,” Ray says. “It’s like this all the fucking time.”

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to templemarker for the excellent beta work, including inflation!


End file.
